assault!”
I shushed them and asked my attendant to hold Banyuro’s head still while I made some incisions. The bone was close to the skin and I wanted to remove some of the splinters to prevent festering and infection. I sliced his smooth cheek as delicately as possible, crimson pouring over the scalpel blade and handle, dripping to the table, and removed as much of the damaged bone as I felt I ought to, Banyuro smiling all the while.
The cheerful gleam suddenly left his eye, though, as someone entered the room behind me. I was too busy applying pressure and gauze to note who had walked into my office uninvited. I expected to look up to the barrel of an AK-47. I raised my eyes to my attendant, his dread-washed expression sending cold shivers down my back, then turned to see Banyuro’s Hutu wife standing there in the doorway. Her narrow eyes revealed displeasure.
“Misses Banyuro. Come in.”
She looked through me at her husband. Peter Banyuro wore a grave face, frightened, but dignified.
“Carousing again, Peter?” Ice.
“Misses Banyuro,” my attendant defended the patient. “Mister Banyuro was defending the honor of a young woman when he was viciously set upon by a group of Zairean Askari!”
She looked decidedly unconvinced, resolute in her conviction that it was all a lie, hands on hips, pursed lips and head bobbing side to side: “Mm-hmm?” I averted my gaze, a feeling of embarrassment pulsing in my chest, like a child who must watch his friend being reproached by his mother in public.
“My wife,” Banyuro spoke seriously for the first time since he was carried in to my office. “Go home. I will be with you after the doctor has bandaged my wounds.”
Then silence. Long silence.
The sighs that simultaneously hissed from the men’s mouths signaled the OK to speak freely. The woman was gone. Banyuro was sitting up now, and spoke first.
“Thank you, my doctor,” then, turning to my attendant, “my friend.”
They smiled at one another.
“Peter,” my attendant laughed, “maybe you should try your luck again with the soldier!”
And Peter Banyuro once again recoiled in pain, holding his hand to his bandaged, mangled face, laughing in agony.
SampleNR34g,h
Tibia exhibit significant morphological divergence from other bones in the sample study. These bones are clearly shorter than the sample’s adult average and are more dense. Cut marks to malleolar groove and soleal line might be indicative of cannibalism, though lack of intentional fracturing and signs of burning make this assessment unlikely.
Bernault was the laughing stock of the camp, though he hardly knew it. Like any good participant-observer the journalist-turned-aid worker did his best to live as the locals, to “go Fante” as the British used to say. Unfortunately, Bernault misunderstood the dynamics of loyalty, mistaking empathy – in the Western sense of feeling the pain of others by suffering as they suffer – for dedication, for fondness, for brotherhood.
His sacrifices went deeper than condescension, though the elders would still ridicule him: “There is no news here,” they would tell him, “and you are lucky the soldiers only stole one of your cameras!” He would smile back, wanting to believe that their comments were in good-humor. They were not. Their smiles were confused – fed by a hope that if one smiles long enough, problems sort themselves out. Why would he, a wealthy (by their standards) European, choose to spend his time and health feeding and filming a few hundred Rwandan refugees? Why did he eat rice when he could afford meat? What was the purpose of asking questions, of taking photographs, of a ragged group of landless farmers and goat herders? Was the Frenchman making money from this venture? Was the aid-worker’s uniform all a guise? Confusion and questions. This is what the West brought.
By the time I took him in, Bernault (he preferred
I shushed them and asked my attendant to hold Banyuro’s head still while I made some incisions. The bone was close to the skin and I wanted to remove some of the splinters to prevent festering and infection. I sliced his smooth cheek as delicately as possible, crimson pouring over the scalpel blade and handle, dripping to the table, and removed as much of the damaged bone as I felt I ought to, Banyuro smiling all the while.
The cheerful gleam suddenly left his eye, though, as someone entered the room behind me. I was too busy applying pressure and gauze to note who had walked into my office uninvited. I expected to look up to the barrel of an AK-47. I raised my eyes to my attendant, his dread-washed expression sending cold shivers down my back, then turned to see Banyuro’s Hutu wife standing there in the doorway. Her narrow eyes revealed displeasure.
“Misses Banyuro. Come in.”
She looked through me at her husband. Peter Banyuro wore a grave face, frightened, but dignified.
“Carousing again, Peter?” Ice.
“Misses Banyuro,” my attendant defended the patient. “Mister Banyuro was defending the honor of a young woman when he was viciously set upon by a group of Zairean Askari!”
She looked decidedly unconvinced, resolute in her conviction that it was all a lie, hands on hips, pursed lips and head bobbing side to side: “Mm-hmm?” I averted my gaze, a feeling of embarrassment pulsing in my chest, like a child who must watch his friend being reproached by his mother in public.
“My wife,” Banyuro spoke seriously for the first time since he was carried in to my office. “Go home. I will be with you after the doctor has bandaged my wounds.”
Then silence. Long silence.
The sighs that simultaneously hissed from the men’s mouths signaled the OK to speak freely. The woman was gone. Banyuro was sitting up now, and spoke first.
“Thank you, my doctor,” then, turning to my attendant, “my friend.”
They smiled at one another.
“Peter,” my attendant laughed, “maybe you should try your luck again with the soldier!”
And Peter Banyuro once again recoiled in pain, holding his hand to his bandaged, mangled face, laughing in agony.
SampleNR34g,h
Tibia exhibit significant morphological divergence from other bones in the sample study. These bones are clearly shorter than the sample’s adult average and are more dense. Cut marks to malleolar groove and soleal line might be indicative of cannibalism, though lack of intentional fracturing and signs of burning make this assessment unlikely.
Bernault was the laughing stock of the camp, though he hardly knew it. Like any good participant-observer the journalist-turned-aid worker did his best to live as the locals, to “go Fante” as the British used to say. Unfortunately, Bernault misunderstood the dynamics of loyalty, mistaking empathy – in the Western sense of feeling the pain of others by suffering as they suffer – for dedication, for fondness, for brotherhood.
His sacrifices went deeper than condescension, though the elders would still ridicule him: “There is no news here,” they would tell him, “and you are lucky the soldiers only stole one of your cameras!” He would smile back, wanting to believe that their comments were in good-humor. They were not. Their smiles were confused – fed by a hope that if one smiles long enough, problems sort themselves out. Why would he, a wealthy (by their standards) European, choose to spend his time and health feeding and filming a few hundred Rwandan refugees? Why did he eat rice when he could afford meat? What was the purpose of asking questions, of taking photographs, of a ragged group of landless farmers and goat herders? Was the Frenchman making money from this venture? Was the aid-worker’s uniform all a guise? Confusion and questions. This is what the West brought.
By the time I took him in, Bernault (he preferred
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